


Competing with a Ghost

by mysid



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:11:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8696098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysid/pseuds/mysid
Summary: A ficlet written (time limit for writing) for the Livejournal Maryrenaultfics Community's Halloween Challenge: "Ghosts don't always have the best timing."  I thought in this case, any timing would be poor timing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ralph, Laurie, and Andrew belong to Mary Renault.

As he turned his key in the lock, Ralph could hear Laurie's gramophone faintly through the closed door. A classical piece, perhaps something by Mozart, though Ralph wasn't certain. He supposed his ear had been dulled by too many years of listening to the more popular contemporary tunes favoured by those around him.

He smiled, knowing it was one of many ways his life had been brightened by Laurie's presence. He was once again listening to music worth listening to rather than lowering his standards to the simple melodies and meaningless rhymes that passed for music on the radio and at parties.

"Hello," he called out as he hung his coat on the peg and removed his cap to place on the table just inside the front room. "Sorry I'm late, but the—"

He caught the tail end of seeing Laurie furtively wiping a hand across his eyes. Laurie turned slightly in the window seat as if looking out the window, but Ralph knew Laurie was trying to hide that he'd been crying by keeping his back to the door.

"No, it's fine. I haven't—I didn't realize how late—"

"Have you had anything to eat yet?" Ralph asked, heading into the small alcove that they generously called a kitchen. "Because I'm famished." He'd let Laurie compose himself before inflicting his presence upon him.

Seven weeks. _Almost_ two months. He wouldn't remember so precisely if the letter hadn't arrived on the last day of the month. Seven weeks since Laurie had gotten the letter from Andrew's friend. 

_How does one compete with a dead man?_ Ralph thought as he lit the gas ring and set the kettle upon it. He'd known how to compete with Andrew when Andrew was alive. He'd simply offered Laurie all that he had, all that he was, and hoped that what he offered was more than that boy could.

But how does one compete with a ghost? The dead are idealized, perfect. They can never disappoint, never fail to measure up to what is asked of one. The boy had died a hero's death, killed in a building collapse while trying to save others, and would remain a heroic perfect ideal forever. 

How could Ralph with his tarnished past, and no hope for heroics in his future, ever compete with that? All he could offer was tea and sandwiches, and rather poor ones at that with the current quality of the bread at the local bakery.

 _Is it even charitable to think of competing with Andrew's memory?_ Ralph wondered. _He's dead, and Laurie loved him. The boy deserves to be mourned, and Laurie deserves time and space to mourn him._ But he couldn't quite silence the little voice which whispered, _But if you_ could _get back to sea, and if you_ were _killed in action, which one of you would Laurie miss more?_

Ralph made certain to jostle the tray just enough to cause a slight rattle of crockery before he returned to the room. Laurie was by the gramophone, returning a record to its paper sleeve. He gave Ralph a slight smile before returning his attention to his task.

"What are we listening to next?" Ralph asked. "I rather liked that piece."

Laurie was already moving away from the gramophone toward the sofa. "You can choose something if you want to," he said, but something in his tone told Ralph that Laurie would prefer if he didn't. He placed the tray on the table in front of the sofa and settled himself at one end of the sofa. Laurie immediately shifted closer and nuzzled his nose against Ralph's throat.

"I'm glad you're home," he whispered into Ralph's skin.

"So am I, Spuddy."

_\--written October 2007_


End file.
